


Ache

by lordmouthed (AgnesAgathaAgrippina)



Series: Sensations [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 10:30:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20095816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnesAgathaAgrippina/pseuds/lordmouthed
Summary: Morse should be embarrassed for everything he did last night, but he couldn’t bear to feel that on top of the current shame that his cock was yet again so needy.





	Ache

**Author's Note:**

> This story can technically stand alone, but I would recommend reading "Warmth" beforehand for context.

Morse woke up cold and sticky from sweat, his limbs burning from the ache of his injuries while the bits of his skin exposed beyond the sheets prickled with cool air. It was morning—he checked the clock. Six thirty a.m., much earlier than a body inclined to recuperate should have awakened.

Light was only just beginning to filter in through the windows. He should go to work, Endeavor thought. But when he willed his muscles to stretch they only gave him resistance. With a heave, he rolled himself from his back to his side. And with the pain—_Oh_. Endeavor remembered.

There was an acute spike in heat at his groin where his prick darted out and brushed against the cool, thin sheets. The sensation jogged his memory which supplied him with images of the last night. _Sitting in his dim bathroom with the low thrum of ache in his bones, Thursday helping him, touching him, leaving him._

Morse groaned. His hips jutted out as if to thrust, but only the sheets provided the barest resistance. He screwed up his face in self-consciousness. He should be embarrassed for everything he did last night, but he couldn’t bear to feel that on top of the current shame that his cock was yet again so needy. Morse’s cheeks flushed with color. Like a horny schoolboy, he derided himself. Crushing on a Don. He almost chuckled.

The clock again—six forty-one. He shouldn’t go into work. Not to face Thursday. Or perhaps he should go, immediately, so that he’ll be there with other policemen when Thursday arrives. The D.I. would never broach such a subject in front of other men.

Morse slumped onto his back and felt the quiet rub of tightened sheets on his cock again. No use. He grabbed lazily at the fabric under his hands, scrunching it into his fists as the sheets stretched more tautly against his member. He hissed. God, it felt good. He thrust up. It wasn’t quite pleasurable but it stimulated him enough that his body kept thrusting. Morse’s teeth held his lip, battered and swollen from the night before. He hummed a groan. It wasn’t enough.

Mustering some undrawn bit of energy, Morse flipped his body face-down onto the mattress, landing with a palpable ache that only his desire could override. He tucked his arms in his pillow and thrust in earnest into the mattress, rubbing his cock feebly into the worn springs that creaked with every move. Morse’s feet grappled for purchase as he sunk his face into his pillow, breathing in the smell of his own sweat and grime while his hips shook the metal bed frame.

What had he wanted last night? Oh, Thursday’s touch was nice, a sweet antidote to his pain, but the aftertaste was cloying and now Morse’s skin rippled with only desire. The image of Thursday, still clothed in his typical suit, standing in front of Morse’s frail, nude, and depleted body stuck to the inside of his eyelids. He could see in his mental photograph—or perhaps in his imagination—the bulge in Thursday’s slacks, hardly noticeable in the loose cut. Morse wanted it. He wanted to see Thursday’s cock, to hold it, to feel it in his mouth.

The pillow stifled Morse’s breath. He heaved through his red and open mouth, twisting his face to the side. He could almost imagine Thursday’s member on his tongue. The small weight, the supple skin, the not-quite-hardness of it. He stifled a moan, and his hand shot to his cock, finally feeling skin on skin. Morse remembered Thursday’s hands, how they hulked over him, how their texture was rough but their methods gentle. Morse could feel the heat inside him thrumming as he whimpered with every sensation. His fingertips acted as gently as they could, copying his memory of Thursday as he softly massaged his foreskin over the flushed head of his cock. A drip of precum fell from his slit into a small puddle on the sheet below.

Morse whimpered again, now lost enough in the throes of his own self-pleasure not to feel self-conscious. What would he want, were Thursday here, touching his throbbing cock? Morse brought his other hand to his head, running his fingers through his rumpled curls and seizing. He gripped on the strands as he gasped. Then released, and then pulled again. The feeling of tension and release cycling over and over with the rhythm of his fingers on his cock created a mesmerizing state of mind, where Thursday seemed as near as he was last night.

His hands, his voice. What had he said last night? _“It’s alright, lad…”_ Morse’s cock spasmed. What else would he say, if his voice allowed him to speak such words? _“…Good, my boy, finish for me…”_.

His cock spurting valiant little droplets of ejaculate, Morse whined into his pillow, weakly thrusting his body into the mattress and into his hands. His whines turned into aching breaths, turned into vocalized “oh”s. His shaking limbs gave out below him, dropping him into the wet spot of his own fluids, still humming to the draining feeling of his orgasm, eyelids fluttering, cock convulsing against his stomach.

Morse still ached. Aside from the pain, he felt empty and heavy at the same time, robbed of his sense of body by his own orgasm. And he ached for Thursday, more than he ever had before. Morse couldn’t muster up a curse for himself, only the thought that he could still get to the police station. Nearly on time, if he tried. Although every feeling in his body begged Morse not to get back to work, he rose and limped to the shower, picturing the man who would await him.


End file.
